One. I’m not good at this. That should be painfully obvious. Like stepping-on-a-Lego-buried-deep-in-shagged-carpet-in-the-middle-of-the-night obvious. Like running-a-marathon-after-a-year-of-being-a-couch-potato-and-wondering-“What-the-fuck-was-I-thinking?” kind of obvious. It’s taking-up-the-Bird-Box-Challenge-and-taking-an-evening-stroll-on-the-expressway kind of obvious. It’s like reading-then-watching-every-adaptation-of-The-Diary-of-Anne-Frank-and-hoping-this-time-it-will-be-different kind of obvious. Two. I’m allergic to pineapple. And kiwi. But I will eat kiwi more times than not. Say, we’re at a fancy dinner. I’m dressed up and you’re dressed up and everyone’s dressed up. And there’s music playing, and people are swaying. But we’re not dancing because: (A.) I can’t dance to save my life despite bragging how I took a dance course in college (but that was years ago and it was modern dance) and, (B.) I’m too busy coughing up a storm because the spread contained kiwi and I rarely buy kiwi (you…